


The Return of Lily Evans

by vindobonensis



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Amnesia, F/M, Hogwarts Fifth Year, M/M, OOC, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Reincarnation, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-19 19:42:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10646724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vindobonensis/pseuds/vindobonensis
Summary: In Harry's Fifth Year an unexpected new student comes to Hogwarts. Well ... /new/ is relative. Things get shaken up in any case!





	1. France, July 31st 1996

The bright morning sunlight streamed in through the old lace curtains, lending her bedroom a golden glow as dust from the old furniture and carpets floated through the air. She lay tangled lazily in the plain white sheets, dressed in nothing but an old shirt, the sweltering heat from the night before having driven her out of her pajamas. 

With a groan she stirred, blinking her emerald green eyes against the too-bright new day. Another cloud of dust joined the golden haze when she turned around and stretched, struggling free of the sheets. Her feet felt for the slippers hidden somewhere under the bed while she reached for the plain green dressing gown, thrown haphazardly over the back of a chair next to the bed after breakfast the day before. 

Long tresses of auburn hair cascaded down her back, undulating in accordance with her movements as she rose and walked over to the window, throwing it open wide. In an instant, sleep cleared from her eyes and her lips parted in a fond smile. Before her lay Provence, as if taken straight out of a Muggle picture postcard, with rolling hills bristling with oak shrub, lavender fields glowing and fragrant, and the white silhouette of Mont Ventoux rising in the background. The roofs of the houses of the small village could just be seen from her window, rising above the trees at the end of the vineyard in front of the house. Eleven tiny shapes could be seen zooming through the air - the local Quidditch team, taking advantage of the cool morning hours for their daily practice session. 

„Harry had better be home!“ She muttered, tying her gown around her waist and heading down the stone stairway towards the kitchen. 

—

A small tray already sat at the ready on the counter beside the kettle. Coffee, yoghurt, fruits and a croissant - straight from the village bakery, if the delicious smell of the warm pastry dough was anything to go by. She grinned as she took the tray and slid the terrace door open with her hip, glad that Dobby was getting on so well with the village elves. 

The old iron-wrought table creaked in protest when she set down the tray and slid into her chair with a sigh of deep contentment. The smell of lavender and dry grass drifted through the air, already warming with the promise of another hot day. Sirius would be happy - he could never get enough of the heat. Understandable, she supposed, after all his years in Azkaban. A shiver ran down her spine at the thought of what had been done to one of her best friends and she quickly took up the bowl of café creme Dobby had prepared for her.

„Morning Lily.“ A tired voice yawned from the direction of the terrace door. 

Lily looked around and smiled at the tousled form of Harry Potter standing in the doorframe. Pajamas rumpled, glasses askew, hair more dishevelled than usual (and that was saying something) - his appearance suggested that he might have been out past his curfew last night. Not that the notion of _curfew_ was really an issue if a godfather named Sirius Black was supposed to enforce it. 

„Good Morning, Harry.“ She smiled as he padded over to the table and sunk into the chair next to her with a groan. She passed him the coffee wordlessly, knowing their routine well enough by now to realize that he would take at least another quarter of an hour before he could participate in conversation of any sort. But that was her job, she thought, grinning internally, as she leant back an bit into her croissant - he was her son after all. 


	2. King's Cross, September 1st 1995

Lizzie still had time to spare when passed under the imposing brickwork archways, entering King’s Cross.  Her train down to Cornwall wouldn’t be leaving for another hour and instead of waiting on an empty platform,  she decided to wander around the station for a while. Watching other travelers, she had decided long ago while waiting for the overnight to Paris at Venezia Santa Lucia, was almost as fascinating a part of seeing the world as watching the natives was. There were businessmen juggling briefcases, mobile phones and lattes in to-go cups, mothers racing towards trains with prams thrust before them, young couples ambling down platforms arm in arm, youths nodding in tune to the music blasting through their headphones, snaking their way through the crowd.

Lizzie loved it. 

The bustle of busy people, the hundreds of lives mingling, colliding for a moment, then separating again. Millions of moments shared unconsciously between strangers, never noticed, never to be recovered. Ships passing in the night and all that. It was a luxury in its own right, to be an outsider with time on their hands, appreciating the spectacle. Yes, Lizzie had felt like an outsider ever since her arrival in Europe two months ago at the beginning of summer - even more so than in her small home town in Upstate New York, where people were still small-minded enough to think her strange for her love of books and her Yorkshire accent. Europe had been her home once, in those early years of her life which she still remembered with a fond haziness - before her parents, diplomats both, had been forced to move to the U.S. and had died in a car accident shortly thereafter. Now, though, after ten years of growing up in rural America in the care of an old great-aunt, she had the feeling of venturing into the unknown, rather than returning home. 

„Tea, love?“ A kind voice asked. 

Without realizing, Lizzie had wandered over towards a small kiosk and an old woman was looking at her expectantly across the counter. At her suggestion Lizzie’s stomach gave a rumble of aproval. 

„Yes please - and one of those muffins over there.“ She answered, blushing slightly - she had managed to forget about having breakfast before leaving her hostel an hour before. Nothing to wonder about, she supposed - she _had_ left with her nose stuck in Du Maurier’s _Rebecca,_ in preparation for the next stop on her Grand Tour of Literature. A grin spread on Lizzie’s face at the thought of finally going down to the coast, visiting Menabilly, the house that had been the author’s inspiration for the de Winters’ haunting Manderley.

 It would be one of the last stops on her trip through Europe, chasing literary phantoms, whips of authors’ lives and shadows of their inspirations. She had stood in the ruins of Ancient Greek amphitheaters, speaking the words of Aeschylos in her mind, had sat in a square in Verona, staring up at Juliet’s balcony, chased the traces of the lives of Oscar Wilde, Lord Byron and Casanova through the streets of Venice, had walked the banks of the Seine in Hugo’s footsteps and had spent days in London’s theaters, museums and churches. The idea had been born late one winter’s evening almost two years ago, while she had been burrowing her way through the local library, looking for a book she hadn’t yet read. The whole town had been covered in an ever-growing, oppressive blanket of snow for over a week already, and it had been while staring down at the cover of _The Odyssey_ that the thought of how nice it would be on a Mediterranean island (minus the harpies) had turned into the thought of how nice it _could_ be, if she got onto a boat or a plane and crossed the Atlantic. And now dream had become reality, in the summer after her freshman year. 

„Your tea, dear.“ 

Shaking herself out of her thoughts, Lizzie smiled at the kiosk lady and took the paper cup and bag she was holding out towards her. When her stomach gave another angry growl, she fished her muffin out of the paper bag and took a large bite, humming in appreciation of the chocolaty flavor. She munched away happily and smiled at a group of teenagers passing by, pushing heavy trolleys, a large black dog bouncing ahead of them enthusiastically. It was back to school for them, she supposed, and rejoiced internally at having another two weeks before going back to high school. 

A few feet away, a middle aged man folded up his _London Times_ and rose from the bench he had been sitting on. Steering towards the vacant spot, Lizzie wove her way through the crowd. 

It overcame her suddenly. The feeling of nausea hitting her gut, as the world around her started to spin, trains, benches, people all tilting madly, contracting, expanding, a weakness washing through her body, legs shaking, bending, giving out. Falling - 

„Oh dear!“ 

A pair of strong arms closed around her and the world snapped back into focus. The sick feeling had vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Lizzie shook her head vigorously, trying to dispel the last remnants of nausea. Uncertainly, she looked up at the person who’d caught her. 

He looked kind. Middle aged, ginger-haired, dressed in odd, slightly battered clothes. Concern on his face. And - surprise? 

„Are you quite alright?“ He asked, his voice gentle, yet slightly awed.  

Lizzie nodded and straightened, still feeling slightly shaky. Her muffin had fallen to the floor, her tea spilt beside it. 

„Yes. Thank you.“ She answered, trying to sound more steady than she was. „Just a bit dizzy. Thank you for catching me.“ 

„Arthur - are you coming? We don’t have much time, dear!“ a redheaded woman shouted above the noise of the crowd. 

„Just a moment, Molly!“ Arthur yelled back, before turning back to Lizzie. „Will you be alright?“ 

Lizzie smiled at him weakly. „Yes, sure. I’ll just sit down,“ she motioned towards the bench. „Thank you again!“

The red-headed man nodded and smiled, dismissing her thanks with a wave of his hand. He turned and vanished into the mass of people. 

„Bloody circulation.“ Lizzie muttered to herself, walking carefully towards the bench. „I really should have had breakfast.“ 

With a groan, she slid the heavy backpack off her shoulders and set it down next to the bench with a thump. Leaning back against the backrest, she sighed deeply and pulled off the cap she’d been wearing as protection against the drizzle outside, releasing her long hair.  Breathing against the queasy feeling in her stomach, she carded her fingers through her auburn locks, an old habit she found calming for some inexplicable reason. Her eyes roamed over the crowd, looking for the man who had helped her, but no trace of his flaming hair could be found. He had been nice -  nice but odd, Lizzie thought. And why had he looked so surprised at first? Sure, having someone spontaneously faint right beside you would explain some level of puzzlement, but Lizzie felt there had been more to it than that. Odd. And thinking about odd things … 

Something was off. 

Lizzie couldn’t explain it, but as she looked at the people passing her, the mothers pushing prams, teenagers talking to their friends, businessmen with briefcases and newspapers tucked under their arms - something was not quite _right._ Something was _missing._

But what? 

After some minutes the nausea had gone completely and Lizzie felt her strength somewhat returning. Sighing once more, she pushed away the uneasy feeling that was gnawing at her stomach and got up slowly. With a groan, she heaved the backpack over her shoulders and began to walk towards platform 9, where her train to Cornwall would be leaving in half an hour. Manderley was waiting for her. 

With thoughts drifting away from circulation failure and slightly weird red-headed men and towards deep green wood groves, high cliffs and the fresh sea air awaiting her, Lizzie pushed through the crowd towards her train. 

—-

The platform was crowded already, even though no train was waiting yet. Rather surprising, Lizzie thought, as she looked up at the large Victorian clock suspended from the ceiling - it was barely eleven o’clock and the train wouldn’t be departing until half past. 

Still, hundreds of people were bustling around, pushing trolleys, glancing impatiently at watches, kissing their children goodbye, reading newspapers. 

As she looked around the crowd gathered on the platform, the profound feeling of wrongness returned once more, gnawing at her insides. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but some elusive part of her mind kept whispering that something was _off._

Lizzie shook her head emphatically, trying to dislodge these unsettling thoughts. She was just imagining things - as she had done oftentimes before. It was her vivid imagination acting up again - as her teachers had called it during primary school, when she had been caught up in daydreams, before she had learnt to distinguish them from reality. _Nothing to worry about. Nothing at all._ Maybe just a side effect of the bout of dizziness from before.

And thinking about dizziness - 

Lizzie had to breath deeply to calm herself, when she felt a fresh wave of nausea begin to encroach on her. The edges of her field of vision were starting to waver, a tell-tale sign that the whole world was about to start spinning. _Bloody circulation!_

Looking around for a place to sit, Lizzie realized pretty quickly that all the benches were occupied. Just plonking down on the station floor wasn’t really an option - no need to embarrass herself in front of strangers unless it was absolutely unavoidable! And god forbid if one of them decided to call a doctor! 

But as the whole station gave a dangerous lurch, Lizzie settled on leaning against something - not ideal, but better than nothing - and stumbled towards the barrier that stood a few feet away from her. Sighing in relief at the expected steadying influence of the brick wall, she leaned backwards. 

And fell. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm open for any suggestions for pairings or prompts for this story. There are a couple of fixed events, but apart from those, nothing is set in stone.

**Author's Note:**

> First off: Thank you for reading!  
> Second: I'm not a big fan of OCs - I actually avoid them wherever possible. However, please keep in mind that this is not an OC story, but a Lily Evans story. Just stick with me here. ;)


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